


A Little Prayer for You

by JadeAngel



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angel Castiel (Supernatural), Castiel & Sam Winchester Friendship, Dean Winchester Has Self-Worth Issues, Sick Sam Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-03
Updated: 2020-12-03
Packaged: 2021-03-10 08:54:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27848058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JadeAngel/pseuds/JadeAngel
Summary: Sam’s death from the perspective of his son, Dean.
Relationships: Castiel & Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester, Eileen Leahy/Sam Winchester
Comments: 2
Kudos: 17





	A Little Prayer for You

**Author's Note:**

> Forgive any typos, misspellings, and grammatical errors. This is my first time writing anything. I had this idea and just needed to get it out of my head. Hope you like it.
> 
> Please be gentle with me.

“It’s okay, you can go now.” 

He doesn’t want to say it. It is in fact, the hardest thing he’s ever done. But, it’s what his father needs to hear. Sam Winchester is a fighter, has been one all his life. Dean had been privy to firsthand accounts of the adventures Winchester for as long as he can remember, so it had always surprised him that amongst all that violence, abandonment, betrayal, sacrifice, and death, Sam had managed to be more than a hunter, but a nurturer too, always trying to put others before himself. It is for this reason, Dean knows his father needs to hear these words before he’ll let go, before he’ll leave Dean alone.

Sam looks over to Dean with glassy eyes as if analyzing his words, trying to find cracks in his son’s resolve. After a brief moment, a barely there smile forms on his lips as if he is satisfied that Dean means what he says. He takes his son’s hand in his own, resting them upon his chest. And just like that, as if he’d been waiting for Dean’s permission, Sam exhales a final time, all signs of life leaving his body.

Dean holds the lifeless, wrinkled hands of Sam Winchester. Sam Winchester, a hunter feared by demons and monsters alike. Sam Winchester, savior of all mankind. Sam Winchester, son, brother, husband, friend, and father. Dean thumbs the puckered skin on Sam’s hand, made coarse from years of yielding weapons and scared from battles with monsters, demons, angels, and even God himself. A loud thunk breaks the silence in the room as a warm breeze gently grazes Dean’s skin. Despite the rush of warmth that just filled the space, the fine hairs on the back of Dean’s neck raise and goosebumps populate his body. Just as soon as Dean realizes he’s cold, the feeling passes. At first, Dean thinks it was the Reaper taking his father’s soul that left him with a brief chill. It’s not until he hears the creaking of the floorboards that he realizes there’s a more concrete presence in the house. The blast of cool air, breaking through the blow of the heater, had come from the front door opening and then closing. And now, someone was walking toward him.

———————————————

They say, just before you die, your life flashes before your eyes. Dean doesn’t know how true this is in the final moments of one’s own life, but he knew he had experienced this flash at the death of his mother, Eileen. She’d died in childbirth, along with the baby boy she’d tried so hard to push out into the world. Dean was just seven then and upon learning of her death, he’d been flooded with memories; her smell, her voice, the image of her standing over the stove making pancakes on the morning of his sixth birthday. But mostly, he’d thought of her hands. She’d begun teaching him sign language before he could even speak. It was essentially his first language and he’d made a point to cultivate the skill as he’d gotten older. And even now, though many of his memories have faded, he still remembers her hands. They’d been coarse like his father’s to the touch, but maintained a soft smooth appearance. More than anything, they were graceful. She moved them with ease and fluidity and although he’d since seen others particularly skilled at signing, none matched the elegant motions of his mother’s hands. 

He’s not surprised then, when his mind is suddenly flooded with memories of his father. The memories are fresh still, from the earliest of moments to the very last, so he doesn’t have to fight to cling to them, not yet. Even the unpleasant memories, he knows, will eventually offer him solace in his time of grief. Dean slowly shuts his eyes and remembers. He remembers his father helping him with his homework at the kitchen table. He remembers the look of disappointment on Sam’s face whenever Dean failed to live up to his namesake, or worse, live down his mistakes. He remembers his father teaching him to drive in an abandoned parking lot after school. He remembers Sam taking down pictures of Eileen after she’d passed, the guilt at insisting they’d have a second child because, “Dean should have a baby brother”, eating away at him until he could barely stand to look at her picture. He remembers his father demanding he eat something healthy everyday, “you can have the bacon Dean, but you really need to eat a piece of fruit or something.” He remembers playing in the park after family picnics. And he remembers the way Sam said his name, somehow full of both hope and sadness,

“Dean”.

It sounded different to him now,

“Dean”.

It was as if, in death, his father was able to let go of the pain associated with his name and grasp only to hope,

“Dean?”

———-————————————-

Dean flinches slightly at his name, pulled from his daze by a familiar voice, deep and gravely. If he didn’t know better, he’d have thought the voice came from someone who’d smoked for decades. But he does know better. He’s not daydreaming anymore. This voice is intimate and real and all he has left. 

Dean reluctantly lets go of his father’s hand, his own slightly clammy with sweat. He shifts slightly in his chair and turns to face the man standing in the entry way of what was once the home’s study, then an infirmary, and now a morgue. The man’s eyes are inherently large with a soft roundness to them, and right now, they are filled with pity, his brow furrowed with concern. They make eye contact for a moment before the man glances downward uncomfortably, eyes darting about the room, looking at everything but Dean. Dean realizes then that his cheeks are damp. Pools of tears fill his eyes to the brim, gently spilling over onto face. 

Dean reaches over to the night stand cluttered with white half empty bottles of pills, the remnants of his father’s fight for life over the last 3 months. He pushes the bottles aside to find Sam’s handkerchief, embroidered with three sets of initials and two names. It’d been a gift to his father from the very man standing in the room with him now. Dean rotates the cloth and settles on the initials, “DW”. They aren’t meant to represent his own, not really. Those initials belong to someone else, someone he’ll never know, someone he’ll never be. He’s suddenly acutely aware of this and feels discomforted. He passes over the initials to come to a name, “Castiel”. Dean clutches the cloth then and raises it to his face and wipes his cheeks, dampening the stitched name with his tears.

“I knew you’d come.” Dean thinks to himself, the thought, almost a whisper, a prayer, in his own mind. He hasn’t the strength to think louder, let alone speak. 

It’s at this moment the man raises his head, finding Dean and regarding him with deep penetrative blue eyes, piercing through his barriers and looking upon his very soul. They stare at one another, searching, for what, Dean concludes, neither of them know. What he is certain of, is that when this man is present, things are better. He hurts less, even now; and for that, Dean would usually be grateful. But right now, that feeling of comfort is tainted with fear. The man had never been a consistent presence in his life, but he’d nonetheless been a powerful one. Dean had hoped he would come now, he’d even prayed for it. But he knew the man’s attachment lie with Sam, his best friend, his brother, his found family. Their bond had been deeply rooted in shared experiences, sacrifice, and loss. Now that Sam was gone, there was no reason to believe the man would stay, not for Dean. Not for this Dean. 

Dean is the first to break the stare, suddenly feeling heat rush to his cheeks upon realizing how long he’d held the man’s gaze. His heart is pounding, anxious to hear what the man has to say, but terrified of the consequences those words surely carry. The man has come to say goodbye. Dean is positive of that. Maybe he’d leave and join Sam and his Dean in heaven. And didn’t he deserve that? Didn’t this man deserve peace and happiness?

“Hi”

Dean manages to barely utter the word. 

The man steadies his stance, draws a breath, eyes still searching Dean’s face. His lips part to speak as Dean continues to avert his eyes. Dean wants to speak, cut the man off before he says the words Dean knows will break him. He wants to tell the man to stay, to delay his goodbye a little longer. He wants to tell the man that he needs him here, now. But a knotted combination of embarrassment and fear form in his stomach and finds its way to his throat, rendering him silent. 

It’s too late. The man has spoken. But Dean’s not sure he’s heard him correctly.

“What did you say?” Dean speaks barely above a whisper, eyes narrowed in confusion.

Dean doesn’t remember seeing the tension ease from the mans face, but it has. His expression is soft now, almost a smile. Dean sits up as the man takes a step forward, closing the gap between them.

“I said...Hello, Dean”

**Author's Note:**

> So in my head, Sam prays to Castiel in the beginning, that’s why he smiles at Dean just before he dies. He knows he can go because Cas is on the way to comfort his son. I didn’t know how to write that without making it blatantly obvious and giving away the story.


End file.
